


fuck it

by Oshii



Category: Hemlock Grove
Genre: Drinking, Gen, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Hangover, Hilarity Ensues, Underage Drinking, Vomiting, emeto
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-25 04:47:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16190390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oshii/pseuds/Oshii
Summary: For the drabble prompt "kraken spiced rum" from iDiru, with explicit instructions to make them suffer.Early s1 Roman and Peter the morning after some wild revelry, hungover as shit and wishing they were dead.





	fuck it

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iDiru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iDiru/gifts).



Roman Godfrey eased one crusty eye open and immediately wished he hadn’t.

The room spun dizzily, and his head pounded like a fucking hammer on a nail. _Thump, thump, thump_ , in time with his heartbeat fluttering _skirtskirtskirt_ at every pulse point, too fast, dehydrated and weak with low blood sugar. He was hungover as a motherfucker, no doubt about that. His stomach flipped queasily as he opened both eyes (like hell he was falling back asleep _now_ ) and protested even further as he pushed himself upright with a low groan, blinking hazily in an attempt to gain recognition of his surroundings.

Peter’s living room….huh. Oh-kay then.

The trailer was scattered with cups and chip bags and fast food wrappers (they must’ve hit every fucking joint in town before coming back here, Jesus Christ there was like five restaurants’ worth) and on the coffee table, sitting in a puddle of what could only be considered filth, was Peter’s bong. Mistress Matilda the Sightseer, he thought she was named, in honor of some dead beloved aunt or some shit.

Ugh, God….he wished he was dead. Bile burned in the back of his throat, fucking acid reflux, and he stifled a foul-tasting burp, scrubbing a hand over his face and looking around for Peter. No other sleeping bodies nearby, hirsute or otherwise. Roman got his answer from a horrible-sounding retch echoing from the bathroom down the hall, and his own stomach turned violently at the clamor. Pushing himself all the way to his feet, he clapped a hand over his own mouth and sprinted (well, stumbled, really, stubbing his toe and not giving a single fuck about it) into the kitchen, doubling over the sink and heaving wretchedly, stomach acid and….fucking Christ, was that _tequila_?—spraying out of his mouth and nose and all over the dirty dishes waiting patiently for a wash. Looks like they got one.

“Oh God—” Roman groaned, his lamentation trailing off into another gurgling retch, hair falling into his face and torso spasming as his now-empty stomach continued to convulse helplessly. “Fucking dishes!”

A sudden commotion made him whirl as much as he currently could, snot and drool and tears dripping from every facial orifice, to see Peter bracing himself against the entryway, looking like eight kinds of horrible reincarnated necromanced shit warmed over. His cat shrieked and went skittering across the threshold, knocking over a stack of magazines in its furious furry wake.

“….tell me…you emptied that sink first….” Peter mumbled, just focusing on his breathing, barely able to process the nightmare taking place before his eyes. In retrospect, he thought this might be somewhat how Roman felt the first time he’d watched him Turn.

“….I’ll lend Lynda my Amex,” Roman croaked in reply, chest heaving, spitting into the ruined sink. “Crate and Barrel does home delivery. They have…Corningware.”

Peter merely closed his eyes in response (not like they were really open to begin with, fuck, his head was _killing_ him, how was he even _alive_ right now, Turning sucked less than this) and turned to stagger toward one of the dining room (hah) chairs, collapsing heavily and lowering his head into his cradling arms.

Roman joined him shortly after, rinsing the sink as best as he could and throwing a hand towel over the remains. He considered leaving a note for Lynda that said “sorry – R” but he couldn’t find any pens or Post-Its and decided it was pretty self-explanatory anyway.

“Ugh….Jesus Christ…” he groaned, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. “The fuck did we _do_ last night?”

From his arm-nest, it sounded like Peter mumbled “what DIDN’T we do last night”, but Roman wasn’t entirely sure. Sounded close enough, though.

Roman supported his chin with his hands and let his eyes wander, scanning the room for further evidence (not that he was entirely sure he wanted to find out at this point). Last night’s revelry must have been pretty fucking epic, judging by their current combined hangovers.

“…Kraken spiced rum?” he read aloud the label of the near-empty fifth sitting beside him on the table.

Peter uttered a wrenching gag, torso convulsing over the table, and lifted his head blearily to glare at Roman with all the strength he could muster. “…do **_not_** …mention that name again.”

It was uttered with enough force that Roman actually listened, and he himself resolved to stick to Mary Jane when partying with his new friend, the gypsy werewolf who lived in a trailer down by the river, because some fucked-up shit apparently happened when they drank together.

Lynda admonished Peter for partying with the local Upir boy, but punctuated her chastising lecture with a hug and a hair smoothing, sending him off to bed with a medicinal joint and a motherly smile. She also ordered a brand new set of Corningware ceramic dishes with a real credit card for the first time ever, received the shipment six days later, and had them all blessed with Nicolai’s watchful grace, lest this new set receive any unpredicted and unfortunate showers.


End file.
